commonpeople1: (Avatar)
The Drowned Man
The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable, production shot

Gradiva is the story of a young archeologist who buries his desires, but of course what is repressed always returns and one night he dreams of Pompeii; it is the time of the eruption of Vesuvius, and he sees his Gradiva there, the dream image of a woman depicted in a plaster-cast bas-relief, with a particular gait that fascinates him, for which he searches in the streets. He is possessed by her ‘lente festinans’. The woman in his dream lies down as if to sleep, stretched along a broad step. She dies (it is a moment for which Jacques Derrida says all historians wish: to witness the coincidence of the event with the archiving of that event). She is like a beautiful statue and a veil of ashes covers her face and soon buries her. In 1907, Freud published his essay on Gradiva and delusions and dreams. It is also a ghost story, unstable and distorted, its happy ending uncertain even when resolved. [1]

In that same year, Freud wrote a postcard from Rome to his wife, Martha. "He invited her to think of his joy in encountering––or re-encountering––after a long solitude, a beloved face. It was, however, as he remarked, a rather one-sided recognition, for the face to which he was referring was that of the bas-relief of the Gradiva, a figure stepping lightly, high up on a wall in the Vatican".[2]

106 years later, to the date, I step into a building near Paddington Station, London, for Punchdrunk's latest production, The Drowned Man: A Hollywood Fable.

Contains spoilers... )

[1] & [2] A London Fantasy, by Sharon Kivland
commonpeople1: (Default)

There's a party currently taking place at [ profile] suede's journal.  Head over there and join in - all welcome!

My LJ is celebrating 11 years of existence!! (and all thanks to [ profile] live_life_like, who originally created it for me because she thought I'd enjoy it... how right she turned out to be.)
commonpeople1: (Default)
My bookclub's next choice is Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens. I originally suggested it a few days ago we read something in 2012 to celebrate his bicentennary. Since his birthday is on 7 February, that's when we'll hold our meeting to talk about the book.

If any of you wish to read it together with me, we can use LJ as a place to discuss the story as we progress through it. Perhaps every week or so we have an online catch up?

I've spent my entire life having people say to me "Oliver? As in Oliver Twist?" Or, "May I have some more please?" Or chirpy singing of "Oliver, Oliver, never before has a boy wanted mooooooore!" (So many original thinkers!)

But this will be the first time I read the book. I'm really looking forward to it.
commonpeople1: (Default)
Feeling Gloomy
Feeling Gloomy's bar

When I first moved to London in 2001, we lived with three lesbians and Erika (the non-lesbian) in a Victorian house in Stoke Newington.  Some people called it Murder Mile, some people called it the lesbian neighbourhood.  You saw girls everywhere, on dates at the pizzaria on Church Street, at the girls-only karaoke just round the corner - even at the gay bar on Stoke Newington High Street owned by a pair of blokes.  It's all gone!  What happened?  Where have all the lesbians gone to?  On Friday night, my brasilian friends Vini Bambini and Bia invited me over for drinks and food before we hit Stoke Newington's streets for a bit of gay drinks (something I hadn't done in years.)  There's only one gay bar now in Stoke Newington, Oak Bar, which turned out to be depressingly empty and loud.  We had a pint, played some snooker and stumbled to Dalston thinking it would be a good idea to try the Superstore. Hunger got the better of us and we called it a night at 12.30am after a chicken burger meal with Coke and fries.

The New Rose

The New Rose

Yesterday, I went to the gym and cleaned some of the flat in preparation for [ profile] wink_martindale's return today.  In the evening, I met up with [ profile] loveinsuburbia for a coffee before we walked together to the New Rose pub for [ profile] zenithed's birthday drinks. Reserved tables, friends, new faces, people I hadn't seen in a long time, a few pizzas, some whisky, some beer, some Lady Gaga text messages, chats about everything ranging from Big Brother to the Holocaust, then a plan to walk up the road and do a bit of dancing at Feeling Gloomy. (Didn't I promise at the start of the year I'd never go back?)

Feeling Gloomy was ace!  Turned out to be its 6th anniversary, celebrated with the distribution of cake, The Smiths' "Unhappy Birthday" and a free beer token if you made a donation at the door to SANE.  It was still empty when we arrived so we took the seats closest to the dancefloor and hovered over it for the rest of the night.  Very soon it got crowded and animated to FG's classic playlist: The Cure, The Cult, New Order, motown classics, Blur, Pixies, The Breeders, and so on.  As [ profile] zoo_music_girl correctly pointed out, it was Student Union Disco Night. 

We ended the night back at [ profile] zenithed's, chatting in his living room and drinking tea until 4 in the morning.  [ profile] loveinsuburbia and I then had the grim and knackering task of catching a nightbus home without freezing to death or falling asleep and losing our stop.  We had three hours of sleep before mystery caller started ringing my landline non-stop.  I've been feeling sensitive and out-of-it ever since.
commonpeople1: (George O'Brien)
I woke up yesterday at 7.30am. [ profile] wink_martindale made me scrambled eggs on toast and coffee for breakfast while I checked my e-mail. I left for work at 8.30 and traveled on a fairly empty District line until South Kensington, where I switched to the Circle line (is it just me or the Tube is emptier on Fridays?) I spent the whole day tying up urgent marketing stuff related to an upcoming festival we are promoting. The office was quiet and I managed to get a lot done, finally feeling more in control of my role after five days of feeling anxious about the festival. My new line manager has been good at reassuring me that we can only do our best and not worry about what's beyond our control.

When I got home, there were two gifts waiting for me: a copy of Tim Moore's Spanish Steps and the Oulipo Compendium. We shared some cod, chips and Coca-Cola from the local chippy while watching two queer films: Gay Sex in the 70s and Circuit. The first one is a documentary on how wild and excessive the gay scene was in the 70s - a carefree time that was short-lived and will never return. Did you know Bette Midler started her career singing in gay baths, wriggling her tits to gay men and throwing poppers to the crowds?! Or that saunas had dancefloors where gay men disco danced with only towels wrapped around their bodies? It's like another planet to me. The second film was a dreadful piece of porn acting without the porn, as Wink put it, about a horsey-looking gay cop that moves to L.A. and joins its gay party circuit. All the clichés wheeled out over laugh-out-loud lines. A great stoner movie actually.

Today, woke up at 5am to a frozen London. Played a bit of Nintendo then met a friend for breakfast in Stratford before heading to the community garden. Stratford is the new Hyde Park Corner: every few meters there's a God-bothering nutter screaming off their head or singing religious songs. The sunshine was great but as soon as you stepped into a shadow your blood cooled. Did some weeding then participated in a meeting about the future of the garden. Hopped on the tube and met up with [ profile] loveinsuburbia and [ profile] yaruar in a café by Islington Green. A couple of their friends joined us and they bought me a piece of cheese cake with a cappuccino before we browsed a nearby art store.

Hopped on the No. 277 back home and got comfortable on the couch as Wink prepared dinner. Now we are watching the X Factor and complaining about the lack of chocolate and popcorn in the house.

I'll never grow a moustache.

Goff Day

May. 22nd, 2009 09:52 am
commonpeople1: (Violet)
BBC 6 Music has decreed today Goth Day. It's also Livejournal's 10th anniversary and Morrissey's 50th. Coincidence?!? (Happy Birthday, Le Moz!)

I'm listening to BBC 6 Music today for purely educational reasons.
commonpeople1: (Mr Stamp)
Despite attending a "lame" fetish night at Slimelight on Friday, then not getting any sleep, [ profile] tina found enough strength yesterday to get on a train from Walthamstow and come meet the actor who plays Kevin and I at Liverpool Street Station. Every Londoner was out and about after a smiley sun rose above the capital. She looked gorgeous as ever, although a little sleepy; we walked over to Brick Lane for the South African B-B-Q I'd promised earlier in the week, as well as a long-overdue catch up.

Afterwards, we grabbed some coffee and had a look at the stalls that sell overpriced crap by clueless Shoreditch designers. There seemed to be a vintage store every ten feet, which brought the shopper out of Tina and Kevin: soon he had a grey bag for his notebooks and pens, and she had a vest and a beautiful dark blue dress.

We visited Nog Gallery so Tina could check out their zines and art books; we ended up discovering a neat exhibition of darkly humourous etchings made by a Hackney artist called John M F Casey. They are quite beautiful - I believe he painted the wooden canvasses white, then black, then etched through them to create imagery of hellish horrors that would suit Tim Burton's living room.

Birthday Boy tired of treasure hunting London

We said our goodbyes to Tina around 4.30pm and went to Spitalfields Market to wait for [ profile] tom. His girlfriend [ profile] christa had planned for him a massive treasure hunt across London, and we were his almost-at-the-end-of-the-line stop. I had a pirate badge pinned to my bag which said "Happy Birthday to Me"; as soon as he found us, I removed it and he pinned it on his jacket. His task was to sing any of The Smiths' songs in their entirety, with no mistakes, so he could learn his next destination. He shocked me to the Moon and back by not knowing in full any of their lyrics. He stammered through "This Charming Man", failed at "Bigmouth Strikes Again", and was about to bomb on "Shoplifters of the World Unite" when Kevin told me to give him a break and suggest an easy one. So I suggested "How Soon Is Now?", which he murdered hurried through before making his escape. Remind me to never go karaoking with him.

We headed for Waterloo for a meeting with my old friend Kelly at the BFI Southbank. Juliette Binoche's paintings are being exhibited there as part of their "Binoche Season" and they are worth checking out if you are in the area. Her paintings are pairs that match her career's characters with the directors she has worked with. All of her self-portraits are infused with the personalities and physionomies of the directors that created them.

Kelly showed up with a gift for us, some french cheese, figs and lavender she collected from her house in France. We walked over to Soho's Curzon because the idea of watching a grim Icelandic thriller called Jar City on a beautiful September night seemed like a good idea. It was one of those films which could have easily been made for TV - a sort of Prime Suspect with detectives that eat goat heads for dinner and juggle their personal lives with their depressing work. The film had some wonderful aerial shots of Iceland but its main message seemed to be: DON'T LIVE IN THIS FUCKING MISERABLE ISLAND. Iceland's Ministry of Tourism should look into suing.

Party Bus on Charing Cross Road

Outside the cinema, past 11pm, London suddenly seemed overwhelmed by crowds of horny, drunken louts from the 'burbs. Everyone shouted over everyone else, and cars honked uselessly at a traffic that was going nowhere. A gang of women dressed as FBI agents, the leader wearing bridal headgear, stumbled past us. Even the neon lights seemed brighter than usual, intense enough to burn your retinas. A nightmarish sight rolled into view: a red double-decker bus crammed with people, blasting "YMCA". The bus carried girls wearing glittery tiaras who were having a right hoot rubbing their boobs against the windowpanes for the benefit of the men on the sidewalk, their hands banging in the air as if the Village People were the ultimate rave experience. Some girls on the street felt compelled to join the fun by rushing to the windows and doing their own YMCA moves back at the partygoers inside. It only dawned on me to take a photo of this modern horseman of the apocalypse once it was pulling away - thus the shaky photo above.

The Sickly Green Chest of Drawers

Today, we took our iPods and newspapers to Vicky Park, bought some bagels and coffee and lay on the grass in full view of the sun. On the way back, we found this chest of drawers sitting on the sidewalk, not too far from our tower block. There was nothing wrong with it apart from its green snot colour (debatable defect) and food stains (solved quickly with a soapy cloth). It's going to sit in the master bedroom after it failed to look alright in the hallway, the sitting room and the dining room.

The Squirrel Who Thought People Were Made of Carrot Cake

This little fellow approached us last week, when we were sitting on the lawn outside the Geffrye Museum enjoying coffee and slices of cakes bought at Broadway Market. [ profile] dawnkitten made the mistake of giving it some of her carrot cake, instantly creating a friend who thought she was made of cake. I never saw a squirrel this upclose before; he was actually slightly intimidating. It didn't even flinch away from Kevin's paparazzi-style photography. Just look at that mouth. It wants to eat you. Yes, YOU!

Still Poor

Sep. 27th, 2008 11:08 am
commonpeople1: (Psycho Scream)
I'm so mad at God I could scream. I didn't win 100 million pounds last night. I didn't even get a single number right! When you consider that I bought my ticket on my birthday, this is a veritable slap to my face. How dare God deny me this money? Especially when I intended to spend 99% of it on charity? So, basically, God is saying that charity is bad, that helping others is bad, and that I should continue to be poor and work for a living? What kind of evil, twisted God would do such a thing? I don't know... I'm feeling very pissed off right now at God. I might give him a second chance next week by purchasing another lottery ticket. I hope he doesn't mess up again.

When you are angry at God, you can go a little crazy and start taking photos of yourself on a daily basis until 17 years go by and you put the whole thing together for people on YouTube to watch as seen on The Guardian:

I've got another recommendation to make: listen to podcasts first thing in the morning, when you are still lying in bed. If you don't mind foul language and crazy gay Americans, give The Night Nurse Show a try. The New Yorker is also a good one, with its monthly short stories, usually read by the author, followed by a brief discussion with the magazine's fiction editor. Richard Ford's story "Reunion" is unmissable.

We've been listening to the stories from The Moth. This morning we heard Edgar Oliver's "Revisiting Savannah", which is so funny, evocative and perfect for a Saturday morning.
commonpeople1: (Steven Lubin)
Trapped in TV

What a miserable day! London couldn't look uglier, with its chilly drizzle and grey skies; everyone already looks pale and haggard, as if they've been enduring Winter for months. In a primary school's playground I saw two little boys get into a savage punch up. At work, I wanted to punch one of our freelance artists and throw him down the stairs. I took half of the day off but everything went wrong, everyone needed me, and I had to be the first rat to jump the office's ship for my own sanity's sake.

Ten years ago, on this day, I went to see the Cowboy Junkies play live in Montreal. There's one video on YouTube, from that same tour, but filmed in New York. I can't remember if they played this song at the gig, but I do know they were wonderful and, afterwards, they came to the foyer to meet their fans. (I was long gone by then.) Some friends came with me, others agreed to meet me afterwards at Cafe Sarajevo, where a gypsy band often played, the drinks were fairly affordable, and the nibbles were great.

That was the night I met Kevin. I'd invited his boyfriend at the time, Matthew, who was someone I had a lot of friends in common, to come along and bring whoever he wanted. I'd been told 6 months before by my friend Helen that Matthew had this boyfriend who "would be just perfect for you - it's a shame they are dating!" That was Kevin, and he sat all night beside me, laughed at my drunken jokes and generally made a great impression. Him and Matthew's relationship ended a few days later - for unconnected reasons.

I bought an EuroMillion Lottery ticket on the way home. 100 million pounds up for grab this Friday. I figured that this would be the one day I get all my numbers right... or wrong. Kevin gave me a copy of David Lynch's book Catching the Big Fish. I swallowed pills and took a bath listening to classical music an hour ago, with just one candle for company. Kevin is now home and is doing The Guardian's crosswords. There aren't enough lightbulbs in this flat; my eyesight feels tired.

I apologise for today.

P.s. Thank you again lovely [ profile] rag_and_bone for buying me a paid account on LJ! I promise not to terrorise (too much) your flist with my polls. :-)
commonpeople1: (Under Water)

Shakespeare died 392 years ago, on this day. Nobody knows his birthday, which was also in April, so for all intents and purposes I'm going to assume it's today as well...

Happy Birthday Shakespeare!

Many kisses, hugs and happy returns.
commonpeople1: (Morrissey)
Happy Birthday, Lord Byron! You are 220 years old today.

A Spirit Passed Before Me
by Lord George Gordon Byron

A spirit passed before me: I beheld
The face of immortality unveiled -
Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine -
And there it stood, -all formless -but divine:
Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffened, thus it spake:

"Is man more just than God? Is man more pure
Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure?
Creatures of clay -vain dwellers in the dust!
The moth survives you, and are ye more just?
Things of a day! you wither ere the night,
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light!"
commonpeople1: (Log Lady)
Mile End has a cemetery right beside the tube station, called Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park. It's filled with victorian tombs, overgrowth, dead trees and crows that announce the rise of the undead. I feel ashamed for not visiting it before, in the nearly two years I've lived in this neighbourhood. Although it was muddy yesterday, and a figure dressed completely in black glided behind the trees like the spectre of death, I really enjoyed our brief wander down its many paths. I even managed to find my own grave. I was accompanied by [ profile] i_love_craig and [ profile] sarahofthedead, who were celebrating their shared birthday by lunching with me (at a fancy Fish & Chips restaurant) before I showed them the area.

I gave Craig and Sarah second-hand horror novels for their birthdays, which I bought at Fantasy Centre on Holloway Road (if you are ever in that neighbourhood, you must pop into this shop and buy something from them; let's help keep alive second-hand book shops!) I got Charnel House for Sarah (about a haunted house) and The Night Boat for Craig (about a haunted boat).

After the cemetery, we took a train to Walthamstow, where the undead never rise out of fear of the hooded figures gliding down its many dilapidated streets. They chose the pub the Pig & Whistle as a gathering place for many friends, who mostly arrived just before 8 p.m. Nobody got drunk, apart from [ profile] dj_alexander, who insisted on visiting the [ profile] theladiesloos as often as possible because of a bowl of pot pourri. I didn't get a chance to talk properly to many of those present, but it was great nevertheless catching up with some whom I hadn't seen in a long time.

Feeling Gloomy soon?
commonpeople1: (Morrissey)
Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning
By The Velvet Underground

Sunday morning, praise the dawning
It's just a restless feeling by my side
Early dawning, sunday morning
It's just the wasted years so close behind

Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all

Sunday morning and I'm falling
I've got a feeling I don't want to know
Early dawning, sunday morning
It's all the streets you crossed, not so long ago

Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all

Watch out, the world's behind you
There's always someone around you who will call
It's nothing at all

Sunday morning
Sunday morning
Sunday morning

Photo by Bruno, taken from my flat's balcony three weeks ago.
commonpeople1: (Default)
Yesterday, for Natalia's birthday, she opened Time Out magazine and found a gig we could all afford to attend. She picked The Wrens, playing ULU. I'd never heard of the band, and since I hadn't been to a proper gig in almost a year, I thought it would be a good night to discover new music.

We missed the opening acts. It was the first time I went to a gig where we could easily approach the bar for a beer, or move through the crowd until we reached the front of the stage. A soundtrack reminiscent of Mazzy Star played over the speakers before four middle-aged men came on stage and picked up the instruments. I thought they were roadies, checking the equipment. I was wrong.

The band, American, had their late 80s-early 90s alternative rock down to a tee. Ghosts of The Pixies wandered on and off stage while the crowd -- a mixture of students in sweaty T-shirts and academic types with leatherly necks -- bobbed their heads and sang along. Kevin pointed out later that we must have crashed a gig for the fan club, such was the enthusiasm. For one song, with a chorus that went Plastic Cup, Plastic Cup, Plastic Cup, a tall red-headed boy beside me went into a frenzied fit, punching his fists into the air and singing along.

Natalia's boyfriend, Mark, and his friend Sam, began taking the piss out of the band and the fans. At one point, the band pulled various audience members on stage, gave them drum sticks and had them tap along to their acoustic song. When the song was over and the fans came down the side stairs, Mark and Sam were there to slap their shoulders and tell them, in the most ironic voice, "well done". I retreated into the shadows, awaiting the first fist to fly back; but none did.

It wasn't a terrible gig, but the music was Meh and the lead singer was slightly cheesy in his guitar antics (jumping from the sound box, throwing the guitar up in the air and then catching it, shouting to the crowd that he would "never sell out", you get the point.)

I've had Sally Shapiro's song "I'll Be By Your Side" stuck in my head since Friday.
commonpeople1: (Jehovah Witness)
Happy Birthday William Blake, from Patti Smith & I.

You are 249 years old today. I hope you have a wonderful day and a lovely piece of cake.

London, by William Blake )
commonpeople1: (Swim)
I am now 31 years old. I can't pretend anymore that one of my feet is still in the 20s while the other tentatively tries out the 30s. I'm fully in and there's no going back. From now on, society will try to get me a mortgage, a car, a career and a credit card.

The last day of my 30th was also a bright and warm Sunday in London. Kevin gave me two CDs -- Broadcast's "The Future Crayon" and The Dears' "Gang of Losers" -- before I opened Dawn's birthday card (a black & white picture showing a sleeping kitty about to slip through a bench). We then visited stores on Oxford Street and checked the prices of suit jackets and shirts, in preparation for a wedding this Saturday.

For lunch, I met my old housemates Silke and Natalia, as well as Mark (Nate's boyfriend) and Joel (our friend who had a surprise party a few weeks ago). Joel paid for my meal; Silke gave me a chocolate cake, a mix CD and two novellas by William Burrows Jr.; and Mark and Natalia brought a birthday card with a naked gay guy on the cover and a monkey inside. The restaurant, Las Iguanas, is right on the Southbank, near the Embankment bridge. It serves delicious, and cheap, latin-inspired food. I had enchiladas with spinach and cream cheese, some beer and a caipirinha. Before we left, the waiter appeared with a slice of a caramel chocolate cake and three candles flickering on it. An ackward "happy birthday" followed, with some nearby tables joining in.

We sat on the grass by the London Eye for half an hour, talking in circles and letting the sun warm us up. We then walked across town, up Charing Cross road, and bought tickets to see Children of Men. We drank and killed time in a nearby pub until the movie started; it was very good, but also incredibly sad and prescient... I should have picked a comedy or cheesy action movie, so we wouldn't leave the cinema in such a deep funk.

Back at home, mom called, followed by dad. Kevin & I then tried to listen to a podcast in bed about multiculturalism (!?) but gave up when it became too obvious we were sleepy and tired. I slept the sleep of gods in their 30s.


Sep. 24th, 2006 08:36 am
commonpeople1: (Swim)
kissy kissy
commonpeople1: (Default)
I've come to wish myself an unhappy birthday, I've come to wish myself an unhappy birthday. 'Cause I'm evil, and I lie, and if I should die you may post an LJ poll (but you won't cry.)

Loved and lost, and some may say: when the day is like nothing, surely you're happy it should be this way? I say "No, I'm gonna unfriend you all" and "may the bus crash, bus crash on my way home tonight."

I've come to wish myself an unhappy birthday, I've come to wish myself an unhappy birthday. 'Cause I'm evil, and I lie, and if I should die you may write something here (but you won't cry.)

Loved and lost, and some may say: when usually you're temping, surely you're happy it should be this way? I say "No" and then I shoot myself. So, I'll drink, drink, drink and be ill tonight.

From the one you left behind
From the one you left behind
From the one you left behind
From the one you left behind
Oh, unhappy birthday

Gecko Day

Sep. 24th, 2004 01:36 pm
commonpeople1: (waves)

So far, Gecko's day has been very average. Gecko woke up at 6:30 a.m., put on his casual skin and went to the swimming pool. The city was cold, sleepy, and Gecko wished he owned a little hat. When he arrived at the swimming pool, Gecko saw a few people swimming, including the thief of Gecko's flipflops.

It had been a while since Gecko had been in the water. The pool was warm like a lagoon. Gecko swam for 45 minutes, completing a neat kilometre. Gecko then splashed himself in the shower room, looking at the tiled walls and wondering if there were any other Geckos hiding in there. Before going home, Gecko made sure to dry his head well so he wouldn't catch a cold.

Gecko ate a bowl of maggots with milk for breakfast. It was yummy. As he waited for the No.18 bus, he let the sun warm his scally body. He had to push himself into the bus, as usual, and sniff the armpits of other lizards. When he could, he found a seat and relished the few minutes he could read his favourite book of the moment ("The Winter Queen").

At work, all the lizards were behind their desks. Gecko turned on his computer and sat in front of it with his purchased Earl Grey. And now, after lunch, Gecko can't wait to get home. He suspects that the three monkeys he lives with have got something planned for tonight. The three monkeys are siblings, addicted to chocolate, so Gecko expects a big cake with flickering candles on it to be waiting for him on the kitchen table. Gecko also plans to demand a massage because his back hurts.

May everyone have a happy Gecko day.
commonpeople1: (man)
God, the only break to this monumental boring day has been the gym. What the fuck am I doing in this office if there's nothing for me to do? Despite that, I'm ok. At least I can sit here, browse the net for 7 hours straight, burn holes into my eyes, be a smart-ass to all my livejournal friends, eat chocolate and be sick, get inappropriate boners in the gym locker room while changing, and never never never get enough.

I've been prowling the corridors of this building, swinging mugs of water as if they were filled with whiskey, wishing for night to arrive quickly. I browsed the personals section of MSN, just wondering what Brazilian queer boys looked like. There were so many beautiful guys, all around my age, single and looking for love. Why can't they find it if they are so good looking? It made me a little sad. I know how tough it is to be gay in Brazil, even more to have a relationship and survive the most macho society on the planet.

Crawling crawing on the floor, my head glued to the white walls of this office room. I don't have windows and I don't speak to people for hours. And I think C.S.I. Las Vegas is better than C.S.I. Miami.

Fuck. Only 4.04. Just another hour and a half to go. Can't wait to go home and have momma's dinner. She gave me a nice birthday present: a book collection of interviews from the Brazilian newspaper Folha. Interviews with Susan Sontag, Jorge Amado, Salmon Rushdie, among many. The phone keeps ringing and when I answer the line goes dead. I suspect it's that mad woman in the main office. The secretary's body will be found one of these days, and I'll make damn sure nobody suspects me.

April 2017



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